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writetomyheart2015-09-16 07:11 pm
nachtegael.livejournal.com) wrote in writetomyheart2015-09-16 07:11 pm
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[ Team Five } 563617-81
warning for mentions of prisons, just a lil Minseok-centric intro to something or other
Up his sleeve is a wad of kleenex and half an antacid tablet. Pressed against his ankle bone by the constricting elastic of his left sock is dull metal spoon. That is all he has in the world the day he’s brought to the first holding cell on the outer ring of cages in the compound.
The contraband is snatched away by a guard before they even make it to the metal detector. He feels completely naked when grubby blue gloves snag the spoon handle from his sock cuff, exposed in a more vulnerable way than if they had made him strip first.
The stringy guard with straggly black hair and a cigarette clamped between blackened teeth shoves a uniform at him. The rough canvas jumpsuit is folded into a wrinkled bundle but smells clean enough when Minseok put his nose to it for a sniff. He unfolds it with shaking fingers.
HAROLD MACALADY, the patch anchored above the breast pocket with clumsy stitching reads.
“Who is Harold?” Minseok asks the guard, eyes still lowered to his lap in a premeditated display of deference. It’s cold in the holding cell, and Minseok hasn’t eaten for three days since he got lost in the tube--abandoned, really, but there’s no use dwelling on the details--and picked up for loitering in the station. No use pissing off the first guard he meets on Day One of institutionalized hell and making the situation that much worse.
The guard grunts, but doesn’t move his lips from their pucker around his cigarette to answer. Minseok hopes that whoever this Harold was--is, he corrects himself, straining his jaw as he tries to think positively--he hopes he’s a nice dude. Or at least neutral in the collective memory of the prison body. The last thing he wants is to get jumped by some wacko in the compound with a grudge against Minseok’s new attire. Minseok has never been incarcerated before, but all the rumors he’s heard about the experience imply that reputation means everything, even when you’re locked in with a bunch of no-accounts.
“Get moving,” the guard grunts. He eyes Minseok like he might be smuggling something far worse than a spoon as he directs him to strip. Minseok shivers but the stained suit slacks falling around his ankles slip off like a burden shaking free.
The guard frisks him, fingers light and lingering under Minseok’s armpits and in the back, still trapping him with that suspicion edged glare of contempt. That’s when it hits prisoner 563617-81, formerly known as Kim Minseok, C.P.A., that he’s one of the no-accounts now. He’s nobody--even stripped of a familiar name to identify himself by within the sprawling system of lock-ups, lunatics, and their loafing, gun toting correctional officers.
And that’s when Minseok decides in a flash of instinct more terrifying than the butt of the shotgun nudging him into the compound yard that he’s got to get out of here. He’s got to get back home before he forgets what it means to be Minseok, his real self.
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laughingvirus !
Up his sleeve is a wad of kleenex and half an antacid tablet. Pressed against his ankle bone by the constricting elastic of his left sock is dull metal spoon. That is all he has in the world the day he’s brought to the first holding cell on the outer ring of cages in the compound.
The contraband is snatched away by a guard before they even make it to the metal detector. He feels completely naked when grubby blue gloves snag the spoon handle from his sock cuff, exposed in a more vulnerable way than if they had made him strip first.
The stringy guard with straggly black hair and a cigarette clamped between blackened teeth shoves a uniform at him. The rough canvas jumpsuit is folded into a wrinkled bundle but smells clean enough when Minseok put his nose to it for a sniff. He unfolds it with shaking fingers.
HAROLD MACALADY, the patch anchored above the breast pocket with clumsy stitching reads.
“Who is Harold?” Minseok asks the guard, eyes still lowered to his lap in a premeditated display of deference. It’s cold in the holding cell, and Minseok hasn’t eaten for three days since he got lost in the tube--abandoned, really, but there’s no use dwelling on the details--and picked up for loitering in the station. No use pissing off the first guard he meets on Day One of institutionalized hell and making the situation that much worse.
The guard grunts, but doesn’t move his lips from their pucker around his cigarette to answer. Minseok hopes that whoever this Harold was--is, he corrects himself, straining his jaw as he tries to think positively--he hopes he’s a nice dude. Or at least neutral in the collective memory of the prison body. The last thing he wants is to get jumped by some wacko in the compound with a grudge against Minseok’s new attire. Minseok has never been incarcerated before, but all the rumors he’s heard about the experience imply that reputation means everything, even when you’re locked in with a bunch of no-accounts.
“Get moving,” the guard grunts. He eyes Minseok like he might be smuggling something far worse than a spoon as he directs him to strip. Minseok shivers but the stained suit slacks falling around his ankles slip off like a burden shaking free.
The guard frisks him, fingers light and lingering under Minseok’s armpits and in the back, still trapping him with that suspicion edged glare of contempt. That’s when it hits prisoner 563617-81, formerly known as Kim Minseok, C.P.A., that he’s one of the no-accounts now. He’s nobody--even stripped of a familiar name to identify himself by within the sprawling system of lock-ups, lunatics, and their loafing, gun toting correctional officers.
And that’s when Minseok decides in a flash of instinct more terrifying than the butt of the shotgun nudging him into the compound yard that he’s got to get out of here. He’s got to get back home before he forgets what it means to be Minseok, his real self.
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laughingvirus !
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